April 2011

04/29/2011

On most days, Elias follows me around at recess, talking about what the other kids are doing but not playing with them. Kids say hi to him but don't include him in their games. Elias talks to the noon duties or his Aide but not so much to the other first and second graders who move so quickly on their able little bodies, running from the small playground to the big playground or out to the field where I usually set up the cones for soccer.

Elias often stands by me in the middle of the soccer game.

"I'm playing for both teams," he says.

"Ok."

Kids still stare at him as he bounces up and down on his blue crutches and some are still just know figuring out that he's my son.

"I wish my mom worked here," a little boy said to me last week.

"Yep, Elias is pretty lucky; I'm his mom and the school counselor."

I often have to walk and sometimes run away from Elias during recess to respond to injuries or fights and when I scan the playground for him he is often standing in the same spot, alone.

Some days its hard to watch; some days I don't have time to check on his whereabouts as I respond to kids in need.

This week something shifted.

On Monday, he stood as usual in the middle of the soccer game, as I ran around with the kids; but he was with another student, a little blond girl who told me in the beginning of the year, "My mom use to have crutches just like Elias!" Her name's Ellie and she is always sweet to Elias and he often talks about her at home. While the more athletic kids chased the soccer ball the two of them hung out in a little hole, or as Elias calls it "the dip" in the middle of the field.

"Do you want to play where I'm the mom and your my kid again?" Ellie asked Elias.

Again... I smiled.

"Yeah," he said and bounced before following her as she ran across the field.

On Tuesday, I stood at soccer with Elias, and Ellie came up to us and told me about a boy in her class who was bad. I know this boy well.

"He's not bad sweetie he just makes hurtful choices sometimes."

"Ellie...Elllie...Ellie...Ellie," Elias said as she and I talked.

"Elias, is there something you want to ask Ellie?"

"Yeah, do you want to play in the dip again?"

Ellie looked at the kids playing soccer and said, "I don't think that looks safe."

I turned and pointed towards a mound of dirt by the small playground, "You could play on the little hill over there."

"Yeah! Come on Elias!"

He laughed and followed her, running, falling, and getting up again to meet his friend at the hill. For the rest of the recess the two of them stood on their mound and every so often ran to the nearest tree, Ellie getting their before Elias could process the plan but follow her did, smiling.

I held back tears as I watched them play, turning away and kicking the soccer ball. My boy has a friend!

That night at dinner I asked him what they were playing and he said, "We were running away from _______" and he said the name of the boy that Ellie called bad.

Another little special needs kid, part of the tribe.

And so I tried again to talk about how there are no bad kids but realized mid-conversation that Elias was just following Ellie between the mound and the tree, liking the game of running away and it didn't matter what name she said, it could have been mine and he still would have giggled and followed her to the moon.

On Wednesday Ellie and Elias AND two other children played between the mound and the tree and yelled, "alert" when some other kids came near.

"What are you playing?" I asked Ellie.

"We're running away from the bad kids!"

"Remember Ellie there aren't bad kids..." and I went on with my counselor lecture and the difference between kids hearts and their actions yadda yadda..

"Yeah, I know," she said as she ran back to her game.

And I thought about all the times I played cops and robbers or cowboys and indians and how they were just playing that same recycled game in their own imaginary but real way and I smiled because Elias was a part of it all, playing.

On Thursday, Elias stood on the mound alone.

At first he was there with another boy who ran off to the small playground saying, "Elias come on!" But he moved too quickly and found other kids to play with before my son could choose to follow.

I watched him from across the field, standing on that little hill by himself, looking down, and again I held back tears.

Ellie was off at the big playground wandering around with an umbrella on a sunny day, talking to herself. I wanted to walk over to her and bring her to Elias but I knew I couldn't.

Before long Elias found me at soccer. "Where's the ball?" he asked.

"Its over there," I pointed and told him who had it and like an announcer described the play.

"Where is it now?" he asked as his eyes can't track the ball when its kicked far.

When I told him he asked, "Are you playing?"

"Kinda."

And then he truned away and said, "Maybe Ellie will play with me."

And I wanted to cheer because he initiated a desire to play with his friend. "She's at the big playground. I'll show you where." We walked away from the soccer game towards the slides. "There she is," I said and then as he ran towards her I held back, ressiting the urge to follow him to her and facilitate.

So I didn't hear their conversation but before the bell rang the two of them made their way back across to the mound.

And my fear of rejection skipped away as I watched Elias walk into lunch with his friend.

04/25/2011

And then I proceeded to tell her how Olive started out with the stomach flu, throwing up all Thursday night into Friday; by Friday afternoon Nick was violently ill long into the night; we woke Saturday morning to a puke-covered boy; and by Saturday evening I, too, spent hours on the bathroom floor praying to the porcelain god.

(Sorry if I caught you on a lunch break.)

Miserable indeed.

On Saturday night, sometime after 2:00 am, I sat in the recliner, unable to lie down, unable to stand up, my stomach churning, my head pounding, and Olive, who for the last month or so has actually been sleeping better at night, six-hour stretches instead of one or two, decided to revert back to her old restless self, screaming every few hours as if she saw a body rise from the dead.

And not mine.

After multiple attempts by Nick to settle her, I resurrected myself from that brown leather recliner I insisted we buy back when Olive was a three-month old baby who cried for five-hour stretches, almost breaking me with her screams.

I walked to her crib, picked her up and held her in Elias's old blue rocking chair, where despite feeling like an empty shell, a miracle occurred: milk.

Olive drank from my emptiness as Nick leaned his tired head against the door frame. When I felt her settle, Nick lifted her back into the crib where we both covered her small body in blankets before turning away.

As we walked back through the kitchen, I felt the next putrid wave rise.

And so it goes...

As parents, our all-consuming illogical unconditional love for our children, at times, can be our very own cross to bear.

"Not quite the Easter weekend we had in mind," I told my co-worker. "But at least Nick and I weren't sick at the same time so we could still take care of the kids."

04/13/2011

"Maybe this summer we should let Elias in on the ice-cream truck," Nick says as we sit on the couch after the kids have gone to bed.

"You think?"

"Yeah, he'd love it."

"I know," I laugh, "You mean instead of that silly truck that drives around the neighborhood playing music."

There's that silly musical truck again, we'd say last summer.

And Elias would laugh and say: What is that silly truck doing?

Oh, just driving around the neighborhood playing music.

That's silly!

So silly!

This is just one of the ways I've taken advantage of my son's limited vision.

I've eaten M&M's in the corner of the kitchen and told him that we only had fruit for dessert.

I've walked quickly past a playground so he didn't have a chance to focus his vision on the slides.

I've sat without moving in the sunshine and not replied when I heard Elias ask: "Where's Mom?"

This weekend, we went to Sears to look for new bedding. Nick told Elias he could pick out a new fun throw-pillow or two for his bed. I pulled out a multi-colored stripe pillow that I liked and said, "What about these pillows for your room, they're cool."

"No I want to pick out the pillows."

"Ok."

"I want those pillows," he pointed at a comforter.

"That's a comforter, Babe."

"Oh," from his perch in the bottom of the empty cart he pointed again, "I want those pillows."

I looked at the WWF pillows on the shelf with Hulk Hulgan-like figures flexing and said, "Sorry Babe, that's another comforter."

"Oh."

"Let's keep looking."

I pushed him to another aisle and pulled out an orange pillow with silver stripes. "Oooh, do you like this one?"

"Yeah, I like it, its orange and you love orange!"

And you love orange, the boy says, to the woman who just cheated him out of his very own wrestling pillows, even though he's never watched wrestling and not because I've monitored his TV watching but because the boy never chooses to watch television. He can't follow the images on the screen.

"Yes, I do," I said as I leaned my face towards his and gave him a kiss on the forehead, "But not as much as I love you."

So if his own mother, who loves him more than the color orange, more than chocolate, more than sleep, more than music, more than time, more than, is willing to take advantage of his limited sight, what will others do?

04/08/2011

I said tonight as we sat down to dinner. "Let's just hold hands and breathe."

An hour earlier Elias whacked Olive in the temple with his cane, knocking her over on the concrete walkway and giving her a lump above her right eye.

"I don't know why I did that!" he cried during his time-out. "I don't want to act... " he said as he swung his arm at my face. I grabbed his wrist and asked him to breathe.

"What did you say?"

"I don't want to act like that next time."

I took a breath with him.

We all need to breathe more.

Olive already has a big bruise on her forehead from falling off the recliner and scabs on her cheek from Elias's last attack when he pushed her down and tackled her, smashing her face into one of his metal trucks.

Thank god she's tough.

And resilient.

He may make her scream and cry one minute but the next she's back at him all smiles and trust. She loves him, regardless.

When I asked him why he hit her he replied, "Because I didn't want her to go out the gate."

04/05/2011

Earlier, before the game, before we lost 2 to 1 in the Championship round of the Fools on Ice tournament to the Rusty Blades, the goalie had said, "If they do that USA chant again, just shoot the puck right at them. Lift it up into the stands."

Eyes glanced in my direction. "Oh, sorry."

"It's alright," I shrugged.

I'm not the overly patriotic type. Not a zeolot for the red, white and blue. I like maple leaves too.

(And sombreros and turbins and vodka and dragons and...)

By my fourth game with the Whitehorse women, I found myself wanting to talk like my teammates, add a little more lilt to my speech, eh.

I'm fluid like that, adapting to my environment, like a chameleon changing colors, more red, less blue.

And sure, this hasn't always been an asset, I've lost friends, places, as I've changed colors. In the past, I've misplaced myself in my ability to fit in with a crowd. Lost for years, until I recognized and followed a familiar trail back home.

But as my country grows more polarized, with perceived oceans between left and right, I value my mental flexibility, my ability to dance to a variety of rhythms, a plethora of beats.

If a major earthquake struck Alaska, disrupting shipping, we are only 3 or 4 days away from major food shortages. I don't care if you are a Democrat or a Republican, you need to eat. Libertarians and Independents do too.

We all crave food, water, company, love.

That child on the short bus, the one who walks and talks funny, his stomach growls just like mine. And that man on the corner, yeah sure he might want a drink, but he needs fat and protein just like me. That perfectly manicured woman over there who turns all the men's head, she gets food caught between her teeth too.

I think we spend too much time defining how we are different, instead of rejoicing in our sameness. And simultaneoulsy we waste energy fearing our differences, instead of marveling at our clollective diverstity.

As I write, somewhere in the United States an eighth grade girl considers stealing her mother's sleeping pills because when she closes her eyes at night she hears, "slut," "whore," "bitch."

A boy lifts his Dad's shotgun from the case under the bed, with the weight of a thousand "fags", "queers" and "fucking retards."

Somehwere in America tonight a cross burns in a black family's neighborhood and a white woman looks at the sidewalk when she passes a dark-skinned man.

James Earl Ray shot Martin Luther King 43 years ago yesterday.

And still we divide and conquer.

"Fucking Yanks!" One of the player says after the game and then remembers that there's an American in the room. She looks right at me: "Sorry!"

"It's alright, there's times I wish I was from Canada."

"You are for the weekend, eh."

"Thanks." I smile. "It was fun playing with you all!"

"You're welcome to join us again next year," the captain says.

"I just might."

And I walk out of the rink thankful for the chance to cross borders, to live in the gray space between ideologies, where doors still open and light shines through.

04/01/2011

Its tournament time again, the annual Fools on Ice women's hockey tournament here in Anchorage with teams from across Alaska. And this year we even have teams from Los Angeles and White Horse, Canada.

And because my regular team didn't enter but split up into different teams, last month I found myself without a team to play on in the upper division. So I traded countries and am playing with the Yukon Golddiggers.